Emily Listfield found herself suddenly single when her husband unexpectedly died after 10 years of marriage. She was completely unprepared for the adventures (and misadventures) that awaited her on the dating scene. In our continuing series "Sex and the Single Mom," Emily chronicles the ups and downs of her search for love. This episode: When Emily finally gets a month to herself, can she find the right guy to share it with?

It's a steamy July morning, and I'm feeling a little forlorn as I put my daughter, Sasha, 13, on the bus for sleepaway camp. But along with a major dose of maternal anxiety, I'm awash in a sense of giddy anticipation. For a single parent, free time is so precious that even the mere prospect of it can induce a form of hysteria. Frankly, you feel downright obligated not to waste any opportunity. During the school year, if Sasha gets a last-minute sleepover invitation, I immediately rush to the phone, calling anyone and everyone I know to see if they can come out and play. A full month? Visions of romantic dinners and spontaneous evenings out (remember those?) dance in my head.

Unfortunately, in an epic case of bad timing, I am between boyfriends. Just when morning sex (okay, any sex) is actually an option, the only man in my bedroom at that hour is Al Roker. Still, I have one solid month of adult-only opportunity ahead of me, and I'm feeling hopeful. My optimism diminishes slightly when, on my second night of freedom, I go out on one of the worst blind dates in history. It takes a further dive on day four when there's a major shake-up at the company I work for. Forget romance, I suddenly find myself working 15-hour days with barely enough time for takeout dinners at my desk. When I finally get home, my best work buddy, Beth, and I are often on the phone and e-mailing till midnight about the zillion presentations our new bosses want. Before I know it, more than three weeks have gone by and—no dates, no sex, nothing. Nada. Zilch. I feel my last moments of freedom slipping inexorably, frustratingly through my fingers.

So when my ex-boyfriend, B., sends one of those floating-of-the-balloon, how've-you-been e-mails, I immediately shoot back that I'm great and, oh, by the way, Sasha is coming back from summer camp on Friday and would he like to meet for a drink on Thursday night? The subtext seems pretty clear to me: It's my last night of freedom. This is your big chance, buddy! B. replies within minutes that he'd love to. We agree to meet at the West Village bistro where we'd had our first date over a year ago. (Of course, we never actually speak—it's all done via e-mail.)

Some quick background: B. and I dated on and off for a year. The sex was amazing, and he was a fabulous cook. (This goes a long way with me.) But—and this was a big but—we essentially wanted different things in life. As breakups go, ours was reasonably friendly and simple. Bottom line: I wanted a relationship; he wanted many relationships. Still, with 24 hours left, I am willing to ignore this inconvenient truth. I am a woman with a goal. And one thing about B.: He has always been a sure thing.

On Thursday, I am excited beyond reason. I wear a hot coral sheath dress. I race out during lunch and get a Brazilian wax. I announce to Beth (well, basically to half my office—we are all women and we have bonded over long hours, malevolent bosses, and a summer of junk food) that I will not be working late tonight. I will be having sex. Don't call, don't e-mail, don't even think about it.

B. is waiting for me at the restaurant, looking handsome as ever. There is an unmistakable glint of pleasure in his hazel eyes. We kiss hello and our arms brush up against each other as we sip very dry vodka martinis. He tells me how fantastic I look, and I get that tingly feeling—when the desire is palpable and you know just where you're going to end up. We are still catching up on our lives when I ask how his sometimes fraught relationship with his ex-wife is faring. "There have been a lot of dark things going on," he intones ominously, but refuses to elaborate. I suddenly remember that: 1) B. is given to drama; 2) he has a way of withholding crucial bits of information as incentive to hook me in; and 3) I really dislike 1 and 2. Still, I am willing to overlook this (did I mention this was my Last Night of Freedom?) until he adds, "I'm not sure I have time to go into it right now, anyway."

"Why not?" I ask, thinking that this was just some excuse to avoid sharing intimate details.

I am not proud of what follows. In my defense, I ask you to please keep in mind that vodka and sexual frustration are not a good combination. I lean in close and, still not quite believing what's happening, whisper tauntingly in his ear, "Didn't you get that I was going to have sex with you tonight? No kids, no interruptions, just us?"

"You broke up with me," he reminds me calmly. "I didn't want to be presumptuous."

I stare at him for a moment in utter shock and then storm out. I had no illusions that B. was suddenly going to morph into Mr. Monogamy and swear that I was his one and only, but this outcome had truly never occurred to me. I am so floored that I actually wait outside the restaurant and when B. emerges continue to rant: "Are you crazy? You actually double-booked me? How could you do this?" I am, quite simply, a woman gone mad. While passersby try not to stare, B. says, "I'm sorry" and then hurries away. (I'm not sure I blame him, at least not for this part. I would have hurried away from me, too.) I skulk home, alone.

The next morning, the depth of my mess-up sinks in, and I am thoroughly mortified by my street scene. I may not excel at playing hard to get, but I have never actually yelled at someone for not having sex with me before. Yikes. But as my mind clears, I remember why I broke up with B. to begin with (double-booking being his basic approach to our entire relationship) and can't believe I thought I could dismiss this just because I had a free evening. Most of all, I am looking forward to Sasha's return. When I pick her up that afternoon, it feels so good to hold her in my arms, share our silly jokes, and fall back into the rhythm of our life together.

It would be nice if I could fall in love or even have a guy to go out with when Sasha goes back to camp this year. But I can't will it to happen—and I certainly won't be calling up any ex-boyfriends. Yes, time is a rare and precious commodity for all parents, particularly those who are going it alone. And the desire to make the most of it is natural. But trying to fit someone else into an open slot without considering whether or not he belongs there is not the answer. Because in the end, timing actually isn't everything.

Emily Listfield's autobiographical novel, Waiting to Surface, will be published in October. Read the moving true story of how Emily lost her husband in the October issue of REDBOOK, and check out the final installment of "Sex and the Single Mom" in November.